


My drabbles for the Tumblr Prompt Meme

by 37h4n0l



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: M/M, smut is in here at some points ayylmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8496148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37h4n0l/pseuds/37h4n0l
Summary: Results of the drabble challenge, of various ships and ratings.A link to the prompt list: http://3-d-g-y.tumblr.com/post/152703315971/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-promptFeel free to send me more requests on tumblr!





	1. Sleep (Nero/Angelo)

Nero isn’t _beautiful_ when he sleeps. Especially when he’s drunk. His face doesn’t have half the usual composure as it pushes against the hard table, a line of drool streaking his cheek deformed from pressure. You could say he’s positively pitiful. Angelo can hear the light puffs he lets out just as clearly as he feels the gun in the inside pocket of his own coat. He could do it now, it would be easy. Would the splatters of blood from Nero’s blown-out brains be red like his flushed cheeks? Perhaps a shade darker?

Angelo skims through his facial features, his jawline, his cheekbones, his eyebrows; an aggregation of skin and muscle and bone that forms the person who contributed to the murder of his family. The person who would kill someone without a second thought but also juggles to entertain kids in his free time and complains when he can’t eat the food he wants. This soft, _unexpectedly_ soft man.

His eyelids are flushed, he probably shed a few tears Angelo didn’t notice during his earlier discourse. Nero talked about his problems in a disconnected array of phrases, switching arguments within seconds; first it was Vanno’s death, then his brother and father and his worries about them, then him being tired, _so fucking tired_. Of being on the run, of killing, on being society’s nuisance. Angelo listened paying no particular mind. Then Nero passed out, slowly and subtly, his rambles making less and less sense as they morphed into an incoherent mess and eventually stopped. The fire died down and he fell into slumber.

And for a moment Angelo’s thoughts wander into a series of what-ifs; _what if_ he killed him now, for a starter. But also _what if_ he wasn’t Angelo and Nero wasn’t Nero, _what if_ they were just a drunkard and his companion. Angelo is sure he’d feel compassion, his heart would sink looking at the man lying on the table in front of him. He’d caress the gold glistens on his hair, maybe kiss his forehead, just barely brushing his lips against it not to wake him. He’d hoist up his heavy body in hopes of finding a more comfortable place for him to sleep, pull him close all the while and tell him that _it’s fine_. He could love this depersonified version of Nero. Angelo could love him with all his heart, soothe away the troubles and fears he hides beneath the confident exterior.

Nero shifts without opening his eyes. Angelo is yanked back to a reality where both of them are chained to this particular existence, two animals in a cage where one has to die. And this fool trusts him enough to sleep in his presence, while Angelo could cut his existence short, put an end to this stupid game of affection they’ve been playing for all too long. He’s a predator, circling Nero and narrowing the radius day by day; he knows he’s _obliged_ to contort that peaceful expression into one of dead shock, wipe away the red from his cheeks and replace it with the polite whiteness of a corpse.

Yet, when his exhales turn into low snores, Angelo’s senses and determination go numb as if he were sleeping as well. There’s so much life in Nero, so much to take away. And when Angelo _can_ take it away, maybe he will be able to love him.


	2. Confess (Nero/Angelo)

It’s been three weeks since they ran off.

Three weeks, and yet Nero finds it hard to push those words through his lips. _I love you_ , a phrase so useless and overused at the same time. Road after road, speakeasy after speakeasy, leaving murders and almost-murders behind, they’re in a phase of their relationship where it just _doesn’t matter anymore_ , and thus the Vanetti can’t think of any logical reason why he can’t say _that_  out loud.

Angelo never said it either. Not that it would be typical of him; it’s clear to Nero by now that he expresses feelings on very rare occasions. Angelo is more about subtle glances and touches that try to look accidental. He closed his eyes when Nero kissed him, after the Galassias were shaken off and their paths met again. They were at a smaller inn - no drinks this time, just food - and Angelo looked like someone who hadn’t eaten or had a satisfying sleep in two days, which happened to be exactly what he was. Nero was about to say it then, it was on the tip of his tongue, but then he saw the other’s disgruntled face. He was tired, dead tired. It disincentivized Nero; he resorted to kissing him softly, and Angelo let him. 

Nero starts to think that maybe he just couldn’t fight back, that’s the unpleasant thought emerging from the back of his mind. They don’t talk a lot, so he has a lot of time to torture himself with these thoughts as they walk from town to town - they had to abandon Cerotto’s car in Florida. Angelo’s walking in front of him, much like in the moment Nero didn’t shoot _again_. Now his guilt has doubled by finding out that he’s no better than a fourteen-year-old; _tripled_  if he counts his family’s corpses scattered, buried or left alone in a variety of places, Angelo’s courtesy. He knows well enough that he doesn’t have the right to forgive, nor to say anything even remotely similar to ‘ _I love you’_ to the person who took everything from him, but then again, he’s not sure he could forgive _himself_  for killing him or keeping the confession bottled up forever. And maybe Angelo still wants to die, that’s why he turns his back to Nero and that’s why he closed his eyes as soon as he realized the Vanetti was trying to kiss him earlier.

It’s evening when they get the news about the Prohibition ending, namely by overhearing a conversation at a speakeasy. It will close next week, all of them will. There’s also talk about an effort to eradicate the mafia. Maybe the Galassias are done for soon… It fills Nero with a sort of ease as he gulps down the few remaining sips of whisky. There’s a bridge crossing a river close to them and the two men decide to go out for a smoke. Nero feels his steps get so heavy that he feels his feet might sink into the ground. Because he decided to say it now.

“You know-,” he sighs when they have both lit their cigarette; starting with a cliché always works, it’s a guarantee to not go overboard. Angelo sees the fakeness in it, he barely turns his face.

“I love you.”

It doesn’t sound the way Nero wanted it to. It’s too nonchalant, or tries too hard to be. He said it in the same tone as a comment about the weather. There was nothing tragic or beautiful about it and it sure as hell didn’t convey the mess he’s been having in his head.

Angelo finally gives him his full attention. The reaction - a simple glare - isn’t better-crafted than the confession. He also looks like he’s trying not to care. Nero watches carefully to spot variance in his slow movements, to see if his hand trembles as he lifts the cigarette up to his mouth. Not really.

“I murdered your family, Nero.”

“Try some new provocation, this one’s getting old” the older man jokes bitterly.

“Are you already over it?” Angelo takes another sip of smoke, then blows it out. “Maybe you really are horrible and I should’ve killed you.”

“Same.”

“And yet both of us are here and now you’re telling me you love me, disregarding everything that happened. Do you even have morals?” It’s a half-serious question asked in one of Angelo’s more lighthearted tones.

“Well, I didn’t say I _forgave_ you.”

The Lagusa has finished his cigarette. He throws the butt into the river and nods at Nero, gesturing him to come back inside, still keeping his cool. The other man reacts quicker than expected, walking back towards the motel they were supposed to be staying in. His steps are fast and he wonders how much longer he can endure the hurt in his chest by not processing it to its full extent. Angelo lags behind, the light taps of his shoes being the only sign of his presence. 

Nero is about to immerse himself in his emotional struggles again when he hears a faint baritone, almost fading in the darkness and the sound of waves hitting the riverbank. 

“I love you too, Nero.” The Vanetti’s muscles suddenly stiffen, making his next step slightly lopsided. “And I don’t mean that in a brotherly sense, I’m saying I’m in love with you. Romantically.”

Nero keeps walking but his pace slows down exponentially. He hears the other man’s neutral tone again a few seconds later; it has a strange note of desperation in it.

“I have been since the day I made you kill Frate. It dawned on me that evening and I didn’t know what to do with it. It was an inconvenience and it made me lose focus, so I tried to cut you off.”

Angelo can only see his back as he says those words, they skilfully avoid looking at each other this way. Nero would turn around to see what face he’s making, but that would mean showing his own expression as well, so he doesn’t. He walks before Angelo and keeps going.

“I don’t really care about privacy anymore, so I thought you might want to know. I’m not sure whether this changes anything.”

The Lagusa pauses. Their interaction must look odd to an outsider.

“We’re leaving this country” comes from Nero as he stops, which Angelo does as well. 

“How? And what difference would that make?”

“We’ll cross the border at Mexico or get on any ship that goes to Europe.” The sentences aren’t even reactions to each other anymore. “We’ll have new identities, you’ll be Avilio and I’ll be Marte. We will get a job somewhere.”

“So you’re suggesting to just _forget_ ” Angelo says, unconvinced.

“I’m suggesting to hold onto the past together.”

Nero resumes his stroll again, but the other man’s legs won’t move. He’s stuck in one place, watching the creases on the Vanetti’s worn suit disappear and reformulate as he moves farther and farther from him. Then he turns around halfway, revealing a smile that’s barely there, much to Angelo’s surprise.

“I love you.” It’s much louder this time. Not perfect, but a better attempt than before. “And I need to spend more time with you to show you, so I don’t have to keep saying it like this.”

Angelo directs his gaze towards him without uttering words. His eyes speak for him more than the earlier account of his feelings, blunt and cold, ever could. _I understand_ , he tells Nero. And now, finally, Nero understands too.


	3. Bite (Fango/Corteo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (That One Person who requested it specified to not include the 'gently' originally in the prompt so it's not gentle at all)

The curtains, the candlestick, the bedpost, the curtains again, the bedpost, _his hands_  on the bedpost- Corteo’s eyes trail across these mundane, everyday objects as if there was something interesting about them. The candlestick. The bedpost. His hands are tied to the bedpost. They risk to bruise as they move back and forth and collide with the wooden surface, furthermore he’s been trying to free his hands from the rope without succeeding and only hurting his wrists more. 

They’re all distractions, the surroundings in that gloomy, Victorian-style room. His hands, too. It’s better to concentrate on them for Corteo, much better than Fango’s cock pounding his ass or the pain that’s tearing him apart with every thrust. 

He notices that Corteo isn’t paying attention. Suffering through this in a less terrible manner was a fading dream. Fango turns him around, eliciting a yelp as the boy’s arms are twisted in an uncomfortable angle. They could break and Corteo knows Fango wouldn’t care. Maybe it would turn him on even more.

“Come on, baby, don’t give me that look!”

It’s nauseating how his mocking tone is coupled with the things he’s doing. He pushes in again, harshly, leaning onto Corteo, looming over him with his much broader body. He stops for a second to lick all the way up from his belly to his chest, and the other tries hard to keep quiet but a sound escapes him anyway. A mixture of a moan and a yelp of fear. Fango’s canines brush across his skin and Corteo shivers when they come into contact with a nipple, followed by a warm tongue, and _he hates this_ , but it does move something within him. It’s a part of himself he’s not sure he wants to know. 

Corteo encounters the burning sensation of being penetrated again while Fango’s mouth reaches his ear. He grits his teeth, muffling a desperate whimper.

“A warm welcome-” he purrs before biting down on Corteo’s neck with force, making him cry out in pain, “To the _family_.” His teeth have left a purple, circular bruise. It could look like a branding of sorts seen from far, like the ones they put on animals. 

And as Fango resumes fucking him into the mattress, Corteo has to realize that this is not a welcome at all - it’s a payment. He paid with the desecration of his own body for _someone else’s_  crimes. He has to wonder if the sacrifice was big enough, or if he’ll ever manage to wipe these moments out from his mind.

At least it will be only a few days before the bitemark on his neck heals.


	4. Roam (Vanno/Frate)

There’s something crude about the way Vanno touches him. It’s a rough touch, an unrefined one; because his hands are big and Frate is small and thin and bony. He’s not a woman, there isn’t much to grope on him, no matter how much Vanno grasps at his body in desperation. He sees Fio’s face, her hair, her eyes, but the rest is a man - a boy, to put it nicely, - narrow hips, jutting bones and concave chest. 

 _It will be the way it would with Fio_ , Frate had told him before this. Ironic, he used the same phrase with Ronaldo. It worked that time. Vanno was in thought for a few seconds, pondering the pros and cons of fucking your love interest’s brother, and Frate leaned up to his ear on tiptoes to add something more. _I know my sister, I even know what she would scream_. And he knew in that moment that Vanno could’ve slapped him back into reality with those big, _appealing_ hands of his, but he didn’t. Instead he let Frate lead him to his bedroom without ever saying a word. 

Vanno’s hands always search, they seek more. They look for a phantom limb that just isn’t there, for _something_ that exceeds whatever Frate’s body can offer him. And it’s not tits or a cunt either, because he seems fine with the sex, even looks like he’s enjoying himself lost in pleasure, in some rare moments. Frate probably knows what it is, he’s not stupid; he’s been working with the premise that the one Vanno wants his dick in is not him, but instead his sister. Still, a small part of him wanted to be the actual center of the affair. He wanted to try and prove to the other man that he was a better choice. After all, that’s how it went with Ronaldo; when Frate realized how bad of a road he was to go down on, he replaced him in his mind with someone better. Vanno didn’t have to do anything to convince him, it’s puzzling that he, himself won’t have a change of heart.

Frate likes the force he puts into grabbing his hips, he likes the way the older man’s palms roam his shoulders, neck, collarbones, and as they get even more rough and desperate - ribs, belly, sides, lower back. They stop on his ass for a while before Vanno spreads the cheeks and inserts his cock. His big, heavy body rests between Frate’s spread legs and he fucks him _almost_ passionately, even stroking his cock, something Ronaldo rarely bothers to do. But that _almost_  is enough for Frate to want to tear his hair out, to get fucked up with whatever drug Ronaldo has for him today. He can, he doesn’t have a lover he can disappoint, Vanno _isn’t his lover_.

Because his commitment towards Fio remains. He’s not willing to throw himself into the pit of depravation where Frate tries to drag him with all his force. His hands are big, more _generous_  than what the youngest Vanetti deserves, they rub on his skin lovingly, even when Vanno is thinking of another person. Even when Frate is replacing Fio. And Vanno is replacing Ronaldo. Sex between two people who aren’t there, strings pulled by two bitter, distant puppetmasters. 

Frate likes deluding himself that there’s some value to it.


End file.
